


divinely decreed and custom made

by nightwideopen



Series: Ace Fics [3]
Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Art, Asexual Character, Caretaking, Established Relationship, Internalized Acephobia, Light Angst, M/M, Museums, New York City, No Smut, One Shot, Supernatural Elements, Wingfic, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 18:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9283913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: Nick tucks himself into the corner, making himself as small as possible. Meanwhile, Louis kicks his feet up onto the adjacent empty seats, larger than life and reminding Nick how he's everything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hi so this is basically an excuse for me to wax poetic about how amazing louis is while throwing a little side note of my aggressiveness aceness into it. plus. wings. idk
> 
> so yeah this takes place at the actual Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City where i like to spend time very often. just a note that either only one/neither of the mentioned paintings are on view. thats the only inaccuracy, the streets and the bar are real and u can follow the directions there. 
> 
> side note: the opening quote is [this post](http://vindictive-suggestion.tumblr.com/post/154581404829). and i was like. That's what it's like loving louis lol. so yeah
> 
> title from she's american by the 1975 
> 
> enjoy my gross ramblings!

_***_

_What does it mean for a shadow to love the sun?_

***

“Is this really your idea of a good time?”

Louis is stroking his stubbled chin and staring intently at the canvas before him. It’s not very exciting upon first glance, a rectangle that’s three parts red and one part beige, a streak of yellow running across the bottom. It’s Mark Rothko, _No. 3,_ and it stares back at Louis. Both are unmoving, stuck in a silent contest of sheer will power. Louis looks determined to make this so-called art crack under the force of his apparent detestation.

“Yeah,” Nick says flatly, hands in his pockets. “There’s always new installations and exhibitions. I like to check them out.”

Silence bounces off the walls of the empty gallery, as they’re the only two people in the room. It’s a slow day, and a slow hour, one that Nick purposely picked so that they wouldn’t be fighting against a crowd of tourists and art students. He’s afraid that Louis is going to do what he always does, that being making fun of how none of this is _art_. The prickly side of him starts to rear its head in times like this, when it comes to something serious. His immediate reaction to anything always seems to be to tease, make a joke, and Nick really loves that side of him. It’s bubbly and fun and he’s always up for a good laugh because who isn’t? But if he’s honest, Nick is really tired of this charade when it comes to the art he likes. He’s heard it countless times, the speech about how anyone could have painted that, that a child could have done it, that the person themself could have done it. _Yeah, but you didn’t_ , is always Nick’s eye-rolling retort. It’s boring, the disregard and weak hatred for abstract art. It’s unnecessary and pretentious and Louis is the last person he wants to hear it from.

There’s something in the quirk of Louis’ lip and the roll of his shoulders as he studies the painting further that makes Nick’s heart twinge in fear of the impending snide remark.

“Look, if you're gonna–”

“What do you know about it?”

Nick doesn't know if he heard him right. “What? I was gonna say we can just–”

Louis cuts him off again. “What do you know about it? I’ve always wondered about… This stuff, if you can believe it. I suppose the context is what makes it art, right? Not just the… composition? Is that the word?”

Dread releases its grip on Nick’s heart, and a shaky sigh of relief that he tries to cover up slips past his lips. Warmth replaces where he’d run cold at the sound of Louis’ voice. It’s pure compassion and kindness, the willingness to learn about something that Nick is interested in. He doesn’t see this side of Louis very often. It's soft and honest, unlike the biting sarcasm and loud persona he usually puts on that draws everyone to him. And while Nick likes every version of Louis for what it is, he this side of him best. This is the side reserved for his family, young children, people who need a gentle touch of the sweetness Louis is always harbouring close to his heart, ready to be handed out at any given moment. Louis saves his vulnerability for the those who he thinks won't hurt him, and Nick quite likes that he's now been deemed one of them. 

Nick lets himself indulge in this and goes on about Abstract Expressionism and symbolism and the steps of interpreting art. He gets lost in the semantics and forgets to try to keep it in terms Louis might understand. But as much as he goes on about the painting, Louis doesn't falter. He simply nods, references it when Nick points out another one of its details. He pulls Nick along to the next one eventually, asking what he sees. 

Throughout, Louis keeps reaching for his own back. He’s trying to be subtle, but Nick can see the telltale way he’s itching to take his coat off. He can’t, and they both know that, so he doesn’t say anything, instead tries to distract him with his words.

After observing several more paintings, all by Rothko, one catches Louis’ eye. It's not in the fake way, where he just looks at it closely to appear as though he's interested. Nick can see the way he genuinely stops short, eyes unable to tear away from the canvas. Something about it has captured his attention, and Nick would very much like to know why. 

“What is it?” 

He steps up next to Louis, their hands brushing minutely. It's Louis that makes the move to intertwine them. 

“It's…” He looks confused. “It really isn't just paint on a canvas, is it?” 

It's a rhetorical question, but Nick answers anyway. 

“No. It can make you feel something, if you let it. That's it's purpose. That's what an artist wants.”

The painting hangs before them, still and a little boring. Titled _Untitled_ , it's a square, on a square canvas, an ugly shade of swampy green and surrounded by milk chocolate brown. Nick loves abstract art as much as the next guy, but this is one of Rothko’s paintings that never really did much for him. 

“It reminds me of how I feel sometimes,” Louis sounds reluctant to admit. “Just plain and gross, closed off and empty.”

It breaks Nick’s heart to have to hear it, and his hand grips Louis’ a little tighter. It's completely involuntary, because there’s something about hearing someone as wonderful and all-encompassing as Louis say that he often feels separated from everyone else that makes something awful twist inside him. Louis is the most selfless, kind, endearing and loving person he's ever had the good fortune to meet and get to know. Other people can attest to that, he knows for a fact. And thinking that anyone has ever given Louis a reason to feel less than what he is is maddening. 

“Why do you say that?”

This hardly feels like a conversation for the middle of a public museum, but the sudden clench in Nick’s chest of inexplicable anger and sadness makes him a little unreasonable. 

Louis keeps his eyes trained on the painting, but Nick can see from where he is that they're lined with tears. 

“You don't have to tell me right now,” he amends. 

A small smile cracks Louis’ lips, a thin laugh trickling out into the quiet. 

“Didn't think a painting could do this to me. Or anyone. I feel like I've got a bunch of rocks tucked up in my chest.”

Nick offers a smile back. 

“Never underestimate the power of art.”

He's suddenly being tugged closer to Louis by the hand he’s holding. Louis tucks his head up under Nick’s chin, a perfect fit, and full body hugs him right there in the gallery. Their hearts align, staying like that until they sync up and the two silently deem themselves ready to go.

They leave after that, gentle footsteps and squeaky scuffs of their rubber soles falling eerily in tandem. 

As per usual, winter in New York City is unforgiving. The steps of The Met feel somewhat like a mountain peak, cold and windy, topped with snow. Nick nearly slips three times trudging down them, Louis catching him each time. Both of their noses are candy apple red by the time they take refuge in the 86th St. station, the only warm parts of them being their joined hands that have been burrowed safely in Nick’s pea coat pocket. He separates them reluctantly, and watches Louis tuck his hands under his arms as he bodily shivers. 

“Sorry, gotta get the Metrocard.”

He swipes it on the first try, shoving Louis through and tucking himself against Louis’ back. His thigh gets stuck in between the turning mechanism and the main control, as usual, but he successfully saves $2.75. 

“You're such a cheapskate, Grimshaw.”

He stumbles into Nick’s side as they walk quickly down the platform, looking back to make sure no one’s seen them. 

“Only because you're so high maintenance, Tomlinson.”

The 6 train comes screeching into the station, two car doors stopping directly in front of them. Masters at pre-boarding and knowledgeable of which cars will be empty, they're able to hop onto the train with no trouble, and head straight for their usual seats. 

Nick tucks himself into the corner, making himself as small as possible. Meanwhile, Louis kicks his feet up onto the adjacent empty seats, larger than life and reminding Nick how he's everything. 

Louis is each intermittent light that blinds Nick through the scratched windows of the train. He's the gentle sway of the cars as they make their way beneath a city that never sleeps. Louis is the shaky glide of the train doors as they welcome passengers with open arms. He's the warm cups of coffee that they cradle in the morning, the sleep in their eyes on their way home at night. He's the raw determination of the night workers, the courage that homeless fathers and mothers muster up to ask for spare change. He’s the pep in the dancers, the talent in the fingers of the musicians. He’s the loud belting of Bible verses, the quiet hum of a harmonica. Louis embodies the life of the complicated web that's woven underneath the streets of New York City. Louis is the essence of everything, in Nick’s eyes. He's the reason it all works. 

“It's our stop, Nick.”

It is indeed, the colored tiles on the wall spelling out Astor Place to confirm it. 

“Right.”

He stumbles when he gets up. The stop of the train coupled with his head rush sends him tumbling into Louis. Not unlike before, Louis’ sturdy stance stabilises him. 

“You alright?” Louis asks. 

The squeal of the train pulling away drowns out the uncertainty in his voice, and his staccato nod is the only thing Louis sees. 

Once outside the station, they find that the wind is just as bad here as it is uptown, and the further east they walk towards their apartment building, closer to the water, the worse it gets. They make their way down East 8th St., making small talk until it turns into St. Mark’s Pl. and until they hit the park. A comfortable, hand-holding-full silence falls over them as they take a right onto Avenue A, a left on East 5th, and race to Ace Bar, where their apartment sits above. 

“Could we not have caught a bus?” a red faced Louis grumbles. He knows just as well as Nick does that they couldn’t have, but he goes on anyway. “I’d rather deal with those wormy designed, germ infested, itchy, fuzzy seats than _this_ fucking bullshit–”

Nick nudges him gently as the name of the bar comes into view. “We’re here, Louis.”

And they are, so Louis falls quiet again.

They trudge up the stairs in the suffocating heat of the building that juxtaposes directly with the crippling cold they’ve just come in from. Nick sheds his jacket as they make their way to the top floor, feeling bad as Louis groans and whines all the way there in that cute, bellyaching way that he does. It takes everything in Nick not to giggle at the back of his fluffy head.

He doesn’t do too well, because tiny chuckles slip past his lips anyway as Louis is angrily shoving the key in their door. 

“What’s funny?”

Nick’s arms wind their way around Louis’ waist at their own volition, careful not to put too much pressure on his back. 

“Nothing.” They shuffle inside and Louis immediately moves to put the kettle on. “Thanks for coming today, by the way. I know it’s not your first choice of activity but I appreciate you pretending to care. Means a lot to me.”

He’s sitting on one of their barstools, fiddling with some unopened mail, while Louis rustles around the kitchen gathering tea supplies. Louis stops, though, once Nick’s mouth falls closed.

“Pretend?” Louis squints curiously at him. “You thought I was pretending? You’re even more oblivious than I originally thought, then.”

“What?”

“Nick, just because it's not _my_ first interest doesn't mean I can't be genuinely interested. What do you do when I'm going on and on about football? You don't say you don't care and walk away, do you? You don't just half listen and nod at the right times.”

“No, I suppose I don't.”

Louis is right. He's always right. Relationships are compromise and open minds, indulgences and sharing. The two of them aren’t supposed to be the same, have all the exact same interests, because that’s what their friends are for. Rather, it’s their differences and the way they mesh that make them two parts of the same whole. 

Louis comes over to him, a spoon in hand, and rests his cheek on Nick’s back. He can picture the way Louis’ face is smushed against the fabric of his hoodie.

“You're a real idiot sometimes, did you know? Like, incredibly stupid. I don't know why I put up with you.”

“Because you love me,” Nick says simply. 

“Love is a _strong_ word.”

The hum of the fridge and the quiet crescendo of the kettle whistling on the stove accompanies their private moment. He's content to stay this way, with Louis as a warm weight against his back as Nick runs his fingers through his own hair. He feels something of a storm brewing inside him, dark and chilling. He used to be afraid of it, the impending pressure in his chest whenever he was so much as in the same room as Louis. Looking back on it now, he doesn’t know how he could ever mistake this sensation for anything other than the cold, calculating tragedy that is being in love. 

“Your back okay? Should probably take everything off now. It's been awhile since this morning.”

The kettle whistles louder now, the water finally boiling. 

“In a minute.” Louis shuffles back to the kitchen area. “You know I always need a brew before anything.”

“Your priorities are skewed, Tomlinson.”

A long silence falls while Nick watches him putter around to make them tea with what feels like an incredibly soft expression on his face. When he’s finished, Louis grabs the mugs without cleaning up or putting anything away and marches straight past Nick to their bedroom. As per usual, Nick slides the milk back into place in the fridge, stows away the sugar jar and places the box of tea bags where it belongs on the countertop. 

He leaves the spoon.

“D’you wanna talk about earlier while I help you out?” he asks upon entering the room. 

Louis’ sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from Nick. It’s clear that he’s already tried to shed his coat on his own, because one sleeve is bunched up around his wrist, and his quiet whimpering is sounding across the room. He’s trying to hold it in, probably so as not to alarm Nick, but he’s failing. Consequently, Nick nearly trips over his own feet (and several of Louis’ belongings) in his haste to help the younger boy cease the pain.

“What’ve I told you about this, Louis? You keep hurting yourself trying to do it on your own.”

“I’m tired of being treated like a child.”

“I’m not– It’s okay to need help. Doesn’t make you a child.” Nick rests a hand on Louis’ arm, fixes his coat sleeve with the other. “Talk to me while I do this, alright? Stop bottling stuff up. You’re not invincible, believe it or not, and it’s okay to talk to me for once in your stubborn life.”

Louis sighs, a great long exhale that shudders on its way out of his lungs. “Okay.”

Nick sets to work then, gingerly sliding Louis’ coat off his shoulders and down his back with little to no resistance. It’s hard, trying to be gentle with something he knows is much stronger than him. 

“Plain, gross, closed off, and empty? Is that what I said?”

A sad hum of confirmation vibrates in Nick’s chest. 

“Empty. That's a funny one.” Louis’ soft lilt of a voice sounds flat as his wings try to break out from their bindings. They were a barely noticeable bulge underneath his coat, easily disguised as bad posture. Like this, though, they're two powerful limbs, their charcoal shade of black threatening to burst through the confinements of the ace bandage. “Considering there's twice as much of me as there is anyone else.”

He cracks his knuckles, one by one. “I think that maybe I feel like there's a part of me missing. Being ace feels like that sometimes. It's a little melodramatic, I know, but I just wish that–”

“There's nothing _wrong_ with you, Lou.”

“Could you keep your big mouth shut for five seconds so I can pour my cold, aching heart out to you?”

Nick unwinds the first layer of the knitted cotton. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Thank you. I'm just tired of feeling fucked up and afraid that you're gonna leave me because you're missing out on something apparently important. I'm tired of my brain and body betraying me because of the images I've been fed my whole life, being told the way I’m supposed to feel and what I’m supposed to want. And I'm especially tired of being so disgusted with myself every time I– Even just waking up is a chore, sometimes, because of something like that y’know?” Two more layers of bandage come off, and his wings start to extend. “It’s like fighting a losing a battle. Against myself, and our relationship, against anyone who’s ever told me anything that made me feel like I was broken or something. You think maybe that’s why I’ve got these? The universe giving me one more ‘fuck you’ to go with the onslaught of shitty luck and self hatred?”

Nick unravels the last bit of the ace bandage, and Louis’ wings extend fully of what appears to be their own accord. They swoosh past Nick’s face, feathers reaching to the wall behind them, almost three metres away. And they’re quite beautiful, when they’re not causing Louis an excruciating amount of pain.

“I think…” Nick has to choose his words carefully while simultaneously ignoring the lump in his throat and the knot in his stomach. It’s almost too much, to hear about Louis’ insecurities, but it’s better than him squirreling them away. There, they sit and wind their jet black poison around Louis’ heart, making him less like the Louis that Nick knows he can be. “I think you’re just… very special. More unique and important than you realise. You’re not alone and you’re not incomplete. You’re quite literally everything to me and I would very much like to think that you’re full of an inexplicable amount of love and kindness. I’ve seen it, and other people have, too. You’re family knows it, the lads know it, and anyone you meet can see it.”

When Louis’ wings sent a gust of wind across the room, they caused his fringe to fall into his eyes. He draws them back to his body now, albeit clumsily because he’s still getting used to them.

“I’m sorry that you thought I’d make fun of the art. I wouldn’t do that. I know I act like a royal arsehole sometimes to get my friends to pay attention to me, but I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“I know.” The room is heavy, claustrophobic and overcrowded with things that shouldn’t be there. “And I’m not with you to have sex with you. I’m with you because you’re you, whatever terms that may come under. Not in spite of anything, because I’m not 'missing out.' I’ve been lucky enough to be gifted the most amazing human being on the planet. Come to think of it, I’m almost jealous of myself.”

“Jealous of yourself?” Louis’ voice has taken on that squeaky sarcastic tone, the one Nick loves. “That doesn’t even make any _sense_ , you idiot.”

“You’re such a dickhead.”

Louis laughs, head butting Nick in the arm. He rests there, just breathing, and Nick watches as his wings flutter minutely.

“Love me or leave me,” he says.

“Love you,” Nick decides without even thinking about it. “Definitely love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> hiya thanks for making it this far you're a champ. please leave kudos/comments/both because that's all that keeps me going thank you very much
> 
> im on [twitter](http://twitter.com/louisandpig) and [tumblr](http://nightwideopen.tumblr.com) if you want to talk to me about tomlinshaw :)


End file.
